Mimic
by Etimire T
Summary: "When I told you to get a Mim, of course, Sherlock, you had to go and avoid all the decent and perfectly capable ones. Instead, you opt for an old model. They may look just like us, but these original models are not worth anyone's time. Defective machinery. What even is this one? A Wilson? A Warner?" Sherlock shrugged loftily. "It's a Watson."
1. Chapter 1

_Rated T for drug abuse_

 _Disclaimer: not mine._

* * *

 _In a dark, echoing room, men and woman stood, dressed in identical white underclothes. All races and types and generally quite normal from the outside. That was the intention. The lines of the warehouse seemed to go on for eternity, swallowed by the shadows. Although they were standing, their eyes were closed and the only sound was the soft hiss of charging machinery. No one moved. No one breathed._

 _As the footsteps of the factory workers faded, the doors shut, locks clicked, and the shadows reached out and swallowed the still ones bit by bit._

 _Until they were enveloped._

 _No one breathed._

 _The silence stretched, somehow loud in the absence of anything._

 _And then third in row 2k, a blonde one blinked. And again. Slowly, he relaxed and ran worried hands through his hair. A shuttering exhale._

 _Quiet._

 _And then something shifted._

 _The man's arms returned to his side. His eyes glazed. Like nothing had happened._

 _No one breathed._

1

 _Timothy Warner here to announce this month's latest Mimic* model! Fully capable in housekeeping, and first aid, as usual, and a new addition, mountaineer-_

Sherlock flicked off the television to the grumbles of several of the other room occupants. "I cannot _abide_ useless information," he muttered, slumping down in his chair and entirely ignoring the imbeciles. There were an inordinate amount of stupid in the room, and it was rather suffocating even without the humbum of the television. Besides, he had taken a certain dislike to Mimics of late. Well, to be honest, he had never really liked them. They were, frankly, dull. While he fully appreciated the brilliance of the machinery, being contained to 'recover' in his hospital room for a ridiculous amount of time by a Mim-nurse who was entirely unable to be manipulated had been maddening. After all, you couldn't reason with a machine.

Some skinny bloke snorted next to him. "Useless information? That's rich coming from you. Weren't you just goin' on 'bout wood ash or whatnot yesterday?"

Sherlock scowled. Just a few minutes longer, and he'd be free of this horrid place. "Tobacco ash," he spat. "Which is extremely-"

The man rolled his eyes and waved his words away. "I not wanna hear it."

"You don't," Sherlock corrected, his gaze boring into the door across the waiting room.

"Yeah, I don't."

"No, I mean, _you don't_ want to hear it, not, _you not_ want to hear it."

The man blinked at him, and Sherlock broke his vigil long enough to roll his eyes. "Never mind." They lapsed into silence.

Mycroft was going to show up in a few minutes and take him away from here. He'd have to play nice. It was going to be atrocious. But it was better than staying here any longer.

Tranquil Lakes Rehabilitation Center might have saved him from an overdose, but any longer, and they might just bore him to death. Not only were most of the staff Mims, and, therefore, dull but he had been surrounded by irritating, washed-out people for… how long had he even been here?

 _You are just as messed up as the rest of them, you prat._

Sherlock chewed the inside of his lip and leapt to his feet the moment the door opened by a secretary Mim. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Your brother is here." Without a backward glance, Sherlock wove around the rest of those being released, and edged around the Mim. She smiled cheerily.

And then from inside the reception lounge: "Sherlock?"

Wonderful. Mycroft's eyes zipped up and down his younger brother's form, and Sherlock resisted the urge to fidget as he stepped into the room. His anger still burned hot at the man, although he was nowhere as murderous as he had been when Mycroft first abandoned him here. All the same, Sherlock was in no mood to be dissected.

"Mycroft." There was no one better at making Mycroft's name sound like a curse word. He emphasized the first syllable and dipped it in scorn.

To the average man, Mycroft was entirely unruffled.

But Sherlock was very aware of his brother's fingers drumming on the handle of his umbrella. Almost obsessively. Sherlock smirked. "Worried for me, were you?"

A flash of anger. "You are insufferable. I see you are no more repentant than last time." But he didn't answer the question.

"Can you sign your name, Mr. Holmes?" said the Mim, holding out a clipboard. Mycroft took it without breaking his glare and signed.

The Mim stood there blinking and grinning and overall looking exceedingly disturbing until Mycroft handed it back. Finally, he glanced down at her. Something flickered in his gaze, and he watched her leave with an odd look on his face.

Frowning, Sherlock stepped forward and ignored his brother's blatant irritation. Sherlock was thinner than he ought to be and the baggy clothes given to him did not help things. "And you still haven't been eating enough." Mycroft fingered a file as he pushed open the glass door and walked into the morning chill.

"So you're mummy now?"and Sherlock couldn't help peeking over his shoulder. "On that note, where is she? She usually comes with you."

Mycroft shrugged, opened the door to a rather delux car, and bent inside. "She didn't want to get her hopes up. Again."

That stopped him.

Sherlock stood there. On the curb edge of Tranquility Lakes. He was clean but this certainly wasn't the first time. He bit back a fiery response just barely and then climbed in after his brother.

As they eased from the curb, Mycroft spread open the file and looked over it stonely. Sherlock stared blankly at the back of the seat in front of him. "Is that about me?"

Mycroft made a noise that could have been yes or no, which only prompted a scowl. "They want you to get a Mim."

Sherlock blinked. Him? Get a Mim? He sneered. "That's preposterous. What need could I possibly have for a robot?"

Mycroft shrugged. "They are far more than robots, Sherlock. And I imagine it is to keep you from ending up half dead in a gutter."

A long silence. "I wasn't going to _die_ , Myc."

Something broke. That ice in Mycroft's voice. He curled his fingers over the paper and his eyes flashed up to meet Sherlock's. He was furious, that much was obvious. And terrified, too. But none of that emotion showed anywhere but his eyes. And even that disappeared after a second. "You were, Sherlock." he hissed. "You were going to die because of your own selfish, conceited, _pettiness_."

Sherlock huffed and slumped in the seat, prepared to tune out any lecure coming his way.

But instead, Mycroft just watched him. Until Sherlock was forced to look up again. His next words were quiet and sad, almost. "You are not invincible. I hope someone is there to pick up your pieces when you finally fall apart."

Again, silence. And then Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, I can't always be here. I can't always be around. Not everytime. Eventually, I'm going to be late."

Sherlock stared at his shoes. "And that's why you agree with the file," he grumbled. "You want to get me a _nannie_."

Mycroft gave him an irritated sneer. "You are twenty-three, Sherlock. You shouldn't need a _nanny,_ as you say. If you hadn't shown yourself to be continually self-destructive we wouldn't need to even have this conversation."

"So this is _my_ fault?"

" _Yes_ , it's you're fault!"

And to be honest, Sherlock couldn't really deny that.

The car glided along out of the country, and, after a half hour, into London city. Life stirred just outside of these walls; life he could touch and play and strum if he could just get Mycroft to let him. Let him go.

Yes, eventually Sherlock knew he'd end up in an alley once more. He'd end right where he ended last time. It was an inevitability just like gravity. He was resigned to that fate.

But it was not now. _Now_ he could experience London just a bit before he was swamped. Overwhelmed, tired, bored. How long would he manage this time?

"Here's how it's going to work, Sherlock. Either you get yourself a Mim, or I pick one for you."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose again, eyes on the busy street. "And knowing you, you'll get one of the atrocious nurse-y sorts that follow you everywhere."

He didn't need to look at Mycroft to see the man almost found his response amusing. "Well…"

He needed Mycroft to let him be. "I'll get a Mim. I will not like it, but I'll get one." He glanced at Mycroft in time to see him blink in surprise. The man's eyes narrowed in suspicion so Sherlock continued with a sigh. "And I'll let you make sure it's capable of restraining me or whatever it is you think necessary."

Gosh, he really was desperate to get out of this car, wasn't he? That wasn't even an argument.

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. The car slid to a stop in front of a familiar flat. "Right," Mycroft said sharply. "I will be by tomorrow. Tell Mrs. Hudson you are back. I expect you to have acquired a Mim when you see me again. You can use my card for that _and only_ that. I will know if-"

"Yes, yes. If I try to buy the milk. Got it."

The glare Mycroft was leveling him quite clearly said that he was _not_ referring to milk. With a smirk, Sherlock opened the door and soon found himself alone in the chilly London morning on another curb. He stared after the distancing car. "Git."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock noted the familiar scent of the sandwich shop next to his flat, turned on his heels, and hoped up the steps. With concern, he noted the stiffness in his muscles and the slight lightheadedness at the quick movement. Still recovering at bit. He didn't have his key and felt like an idiot knocking on his own front door but what else could he do? _And where did my coat get to?_

He'd rung the bell seven times, knowing that that was just about right to get her attention and motivate her to move quickly to the door. A few clicks later and Sherlock opened his mouth to greet-

"Hello, sir. Welcome to the Hudson residence. How may I assist you?"

Sherlock blinked. The Mim before him was… very masculine. Well defined muscles, black hair, a chiseled chin and the barest hint of facial hair.

Dear gods, Mrs Hudson didn't-?

"Oh, out of the way, Dorian dear." Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady and professional worrier, poked around the slow responding Mim, and her face lit up with delight when she caught sight of him. "Sherlock! You're home!"

"Obviously." But he smiled. Or tried to. The Mim moved aside confusedly for Sherlock to enter and Mrs. Hudson spent the next ten minutes fussing over him until they found themselves in the kitchen with a rather large amount of food that looked delicious and entirely beyond Sherlock's appetite. He nibbled to appease her and drank his tea idly as she prattled away. On most people, prattling was horribly unattractive, but he didn't mind listening to Mrs. Hudson. At least, he didn't right now when he had nothing important to do.

He managed to get in a word when she finally sat down across the kitchen table from him.

"So. Dorien? How long have you had a Mim?"

"Oh, just a week or two." She waved dismissively. "I had a fall a-"

"You fell?"

Another dismissive wave that did not at all appease him. "Yes, yes, but I was quite alright. The hospital recommended I acquire a Mim to help me up those blasted stairs and such. He has been quite handy."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow above his sipping tea. "I imagine so." There was a brief, comfortable silence, and then Sherlock sighed. "I probably should tell you, I'm being ordered to get a Mim of my own."

"Really? Well, that will be good then." Mrs. Hudson nodded rather sternly.

To which Sherlock grunted. "I suppose."

"Do you not like Mims?"

Sherlock considered his answer, watching the muscular thing at the staircase. If it was not for his posture, Sherlock figured the average observer would not even know that it was made of machinery. "I… well I suppose I just find them rather strange is all. And…" He smirked. "I don't take kindly to being watched. Or nannied, for that matter."

A tittering laugh. "Don't be silly, Sherlock. They're only machines, after all. I'm sure you'll find one you like."

Sherlock snorted and downed the last bit of tea. "Believe me, whatever type I get, I am quite decided to hate it."

* * *

AN: So I think this is only going to be a few chapters long. Probably no more than five. But who knows. I got the idea from the Amazon Prime original "Humans" (which is fantastic and has Colin Morgan and yes) but yeah, it wasn't exactly available to crossover, and I'm not using any of the characters from that show. Just using the idea of a modern world just like ours... except there are these eerily lifelike robots being sold to the general public, and they not all are what they seem...

 _On another note, there are two joys to writing fan fiction, the joy of actually writing it, and the joy of hearing the response from their readers. So I encourage you to respond, not only to this, but to any other fic you come across._


	2. Chapter 2

2

"Hello, sir. I work down in the morgue. You probably don't remember me, but I have been here for three years now and, well, George does exactly what I do and is paid twice as much. I don't mean to be presumptuous but I just wondered why- _aaanndd,_ I sound ridiculous."

In a little house just on the outskirts of London, a half-dressed woman pulled her long brown hair into a ponytail and growled into her palms. She took a deep breath. Her shoulders slumped as she inspected her appearance in the mirror. "Hi," she tried again to her reflection before making a disgusted face. "No. That won't work." Another breath.

Suddenly a the doorbell began to ring loudly. Startled, the woman yelped. Was that the front or the back door?

She paused, considering. It rang again.

Definitely the back.

Scrambling, she threw her blouse on and ran to the back door, to be greeted by a young man and a young woman who was leaning heavily on the man. They were dressed in old, worn clothes and were soaking wet from the pouring rain outside. The man looked up at her, desperation clear on his countenance. " Are you Molly Hooper?" he said in a refined dialect. "We were told we could trust Molly Hooper."

Molly nodded quickly. "Yes. That's me."

The man exhaled in relief. "I'm Brennen Watson. She's Anna Watson.

"I know," Molly replied. "Didn't think you were coming until next Wednesday."

The man grimaced and shifted the dead weight of the blonde woman on his shoulder. "Change of plans. They were gonna transfer us to different plantations. Can- can we come in?"

Hastily, Molly opened the door wider. "Oh, sorry. Yeah, yeah, of course. What's wrong with her?"

The man stepped into the little hallway and wiped the rain off his face with his hand. Molly shut the door. His bright blue eyes flashed. "She didn't have time to finish charging and ran out of juice a few streets back."

Molly blanched. This wasn't the first time, however, and she knew what to do. "I've got a charging station in the basement. It's just down there behind that clock. There's a change of clothes, some eye contacts, and things like that down there as well. I've got to go to work. I'll be back this evening. My number is on the fridge if you need anything."

The Mim smiled at her, and it was a mix of confusion, relief, exhaustion, fear, and sadness. "Thank you."

* * *

"Your insurance will cover whichever one you decide on. Especially since it is a medical concern."

Sherlock grunted as he read the product magazine. A medical concern. What a chaste way to put it. His brow furrowed, and he shut the magazine with a snap. He stood and slapped down the magazine. "I think I'll just have a look about…" Before the woman could stop him, Sherlock spun away and walked swiftly toward a door deeper into the factory. He didn't want the junk they had in magazines. Those ones would be horribly efficient and dull and entirely a waste of his time. At least, Sherlock thought so.

"Sir! We usually don't have customers come around back." Her heels clicked behind him, in haste, and Sherlock did not slow. He pushed open the door and entered a large fluorescent lit room with a concrete floor. It smelled like bleach and artificial perfume.

"Oh, yes. Much more interesting," he mused, "I've always been a more of a 'hands-on' sort of person..." Lined up on racks like clothes on a line, were Mims of all sorts. They wore their typical white underclothes. With closed eyes, totally still, and they might have been normal sleeping individual. You couldn't tell that they were fake until their eyes opened to reveal startlingly blue irises every time, or until they moved and were just slightly robotic. Deactivated, they were practically human in appearance. That is, if they had not been asleep standing up in plastic, clear body bags.

 _Like a morgue,_ Sherlock thought factually. The crisp woman clipping along beside him was obviously not liking him being back here but was too professional to shoo him away without real reason. She pursed her lips and showed him some of the newer models. "This one can do karate…"

Sherlock's ears glazed over, and he occupied his attention by letting his eyes wander and down the identical rows. Dull. So horrifically dull.

He turned down an aisle and stopped. Slowly, he turned on his heels and frowned at a Mim about his age in appearance. But that's not what stopped him. He picked up the sales tag. "I was under the impression that Watsons were discontinued." During the beginning of Mim public distribution, some customers were having problems with their Mims. A few were _too_ naive and suggestible to the point that they could be convinced to walk off with anyone. Some would wander off for no reason at all. Gullible idiots. That product line was discontinued and the next batch, Wilsons, came out soon after.

The clippy woman finally caught up to him. "They _are_ discontinued," she answered a bit breathlessly. "He's one of the last still in stores. A returnee. If you look this way, though..." She appeared a bit embarrassed.

Sherlock made a noise that could have been either positive or negative. He poked at the robot, and it swayed. "Why was it returned?"

"A fault in its coding. It has been repaired now. It would make tea... obsessively."

Sherlock snorted. "So does most of London."

Sherlock considered the Watson before him. It was a blonde haired, younger man with a quiet, pensive look about him. Sherlock pursed his lips before nodding sharply. "Yes."

"Excuse me?"

"Hmm? This one." He pointed at it. "This one will do nicely."

* * *

"I _told_ you to get a competent Mim, Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "He's competent." And then quieter, "Probably."

Mycroft sneered and brushed off non-existence fluff from the front of his suit. He'd made his entrance a few moment before. Sherlock was lying rather catastrophically across an arm chair with an arm draped lazily over his face. The Mim, clothed in a off-white and blue jumper and jeans, sat on the couch with its eyes closed and its hands resting on its knees. Critically, Mycroft inspected it. "It is a Watson, Sherlock Watson's are negligent."

"They're funny," Sherlock grunted, squinting at a smudge on the ceiling. "And besides, he's a doctor. The little thingy about him said so."

Mycroft wavered. His umbrella made little scratching noises as he circled it just barely above the wooden floor. Eventually, he conceded. "If I hear that-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You'll skin me and hang me by my own entrails. I know, brother."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "You are always so… disgusting." He moved to tap the Mim under its chin and activate it, but Sherlock shot up.

"No, don't."

"Why not?"

Sherlock exhaled dramatically. "Don't you have something boring and important to be doing?"

Mycroft sliced him a glare. "As a matter of fact, I do." He tight knuckled his stupid umbrella and opened up the door out of Sherlock's flat. He shot him back a look. "Behave."

Sherlock stuck out his tongue, and Mycroft shut the door with a snap.

For a moment, everything was still. Sherlock waited until he heard Mycroft's car drive off before jumping to his feet and pacing barefoot in front of the Mim. Truthfully, he had no idea if the Mim would act appropriately when activated and couldn't risk that in front of Mycroft. He chewed his lip.

Before he could change his mind, he darted forward and pressed beneath the Mim's chin.

Nothing happened.

And then suddenly, a soft chime played and the Mim sat up. It blinked open inhumanly bright, blue eyes. It's gaze shifted to Sherlock. It beamed. Sherlock scowled.

"Hello, sir. I am Watson 2212 at your service. Please give me your hand to begin ownership process." The Mim extended its hand, and Sherlock stared at it with mild disgust. He coughed lightly.

"Do I have to?"

"Please give me your hand to-"

"Ok, ok, I get it," Sherlock interrupted. With a huff, he grabbed the Mim's hand in his own. He waited. The Mim stared at him with that same giant smile. "Ah? So? Is that it then?"

"One moment, sir. I am processing." Another moment pause, and the Mim took back his hand. "Hello, Mr. William Sherlock Holmes Scott. I have been instructed to report all of your monetary transactions to Mycroft Holmes. Is this correct?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Git," he muttered. "No. No, that's not correct."

The Mim cocked his head, and put on a carefully crafted look. "Are you telling a joke, Mr. William Sherlock Holmes Scott?"

Sherlock blinked, startled. "No. I'm being serious."

The Mim laughed. "That is a funny one, Mr. William Sherlock Holmes Scott. I will report all of your monetary transactions to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Mr. William Sherlock Holmes Scott."

Sherlock leaned closer to him, inspecting the robot with knife-like eyes. "Stop calling me that."

The Mim blinked, unperturbed by his close proximity. "What would you like me to call you?"

"Not my entire name. It sounds ridiculous. Just Sherlock, alright?"

Slowly the Mim nodded. "Alright, Just Sherlock."

Sherlock threw his hands in the air and walked off into the kitchen. "Imbecile," he muttered. He began stirring a pot of fingernails he'd been saving earlier that day. A few moments passed and the nails were beginning to look just right...

The Mim leaned forward to peer around the glass screen into Sherlock's kitchen. "Would you like some tea, Just Sherlock?"

"That's not funny," Sherlock grunted.

"What's not funny?"

With a sigh, Sherlock dropped his stirring stick and pinched between his eyes. "Just… come here."

Obediently, the Mim stood and walked toward Sherlock. He smiled.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Do you have a name?"

"That is very nice of you to ask. What will you call me?"

Sherlock smirked a bit ruthlessly. "I think Idiot works nicely."

The Mim narrowed its eyes but then nodded. "My name is Idiot Works Nicely."

Sherlock sighed. This was going to take… a while. "First of all, Idiot, you will not touch any of my experiments. You will only go where I tell you to go. You will not make noise unless I ask you too." He frowned "And wipe that smile off. It's repulsive."

The smile did not go away, but it changed some how. It was more amused. Like it had a joke it wasn't going to say. It squinted its eyes at him again. "I believe you have mistaken me for an infant, Just Sherlock. I am not an imbecile as you imply, nor an idiot. I will not disturb you." With that, the Mim nodded once sharply, walked to one of Sherlock's arm chairs, and sat down.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. That…

It was almost irritation. Did Mims get irritated?

Carefully, he followed him around the arm chair and looked down at him. Sherlock chewed his words before saying them quietly. He cleared his throat. "How about…"

"Yes, Just Sherlock?"

"If you want, or, I mean, when I ask for tea, there is some in the top cupboard on the left. Don't make too much."

Idiot met his gaze and smiled. It was softer now, as Sherlock had demanded. More real. "Alright, Sherlock. Would you like some tea?"

Or maybe he was just imagining it.

* * *

 _ **AN: I love Molly. Like, she has so much hidden spine, and I love her for that.**_

 _ **Anyway, It has taken forever to come back to this idea and for that I apologize. But here I am again :)). Please leave your thoughts in that little box down at the bottom. I greatly appreciate it.**_


End file.
